Ashley

It's the day before Halloween. I sit at the bar and wait for my lunch to arrive. The restaurant is not crowded today, and Ashley has time to sit with me. I've already introduced Ashley. She's a 22 years old waitress and she's a cutie. She has a pretty face, and she's meticulous with her makeup and appearance.

"Ashley," I say to her, "can you cook?"

"Hell no!" Ashley replies. "Do I look like I can cook?"

Now that you mention it, no. What was I thinking?

Ashley has never been my server, but we've seen each other in the restaurant many times. Sometimes, as I come through the door, she will walk up to me and hug me. Sometimes, she yells "Wayner!" when she sees me. Sometimes, she punches the back of my barstool as she walks by. And sometimes, she punches me as she walks by. If this is flirting, it's not serious. It's just Ashley being Ashley. I think she trusts me to ensure nothing comes of it, and that allows her to feel safe to do it.

If she gets bored she might open a notepad and doodle a picture—a car outside, or me sitting at the bar. Just for grins, I scanned in a couple of her drawings, threw some color on them, and printed them letter size. When I brought in the prints and showed them to her, she seemed pleased to have them.

Today she reads her horoscope, then asks about my birthday so she can read my horoscope. "Come in tomorrow," she says, talking about Halloween. "I'm going to come as a prisoner. I've got a striped suit and handcuffs." Then she sees a new customer in her section. She jumps off the barstool and she's gone.

Ashley is looking for a job that pays more. I don't know how much longer she will be at Applebee's. She's not a bartender and she never serves me food, but if she goes, I'll miss her. I'll miss hearing her yell "Wayner!" at me, and I'll miss those mischievous, flirtatious looks she sends my way.
So, Ashley, I'll understand if you have to leave, but I hope it doesn't happen for a while. A long while.